


Though You Walk the Weird and Winding Ways

by jane_potter



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist
Genre: Gen, Ishbal | Ishval, Minor Violence, War Era, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-21
Updated: 2011-03-21
Packaged: 2017-10-17 04:28:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 630
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/172910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jane_potter/pseuds/jane_potter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the Ishbalan War, one holy woman struggles to protect her people, even if it means turning her back on duty. Duty is set in stone, and Izra is only flesh and blood.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Though You Walk the Weird and Winding Ways

**Author's Note:**

> Drabble written for leupagus' "Promptfest '11: Mary Sue Edition" on LJ, the point of which was to write without shame about women being awesome. I asked for a Fullmetal prompt about an original Ishbalan character, then went on to ignore 80% of the prompt and write this. That's okay, I used the monk character leupagus suggested. :D

Izra is not supposed to be here.

She is a pillar of the religious community, but not just any pillar; she has been trained since childhood in the strict discipline of the warrior monks, the ones who protect the sanctity of Ishbala's temples and wells. Duty and honor say that she should be on the front lines with her brothers and sisters in creed, striking down the Amestrian dogs that are circling to tear their country to pieces. She is not.

Izra is not supposed to be a caretaker, a shepherd, a healer. These people have their rightful places in society and are honoured for it, but in this time of war, Izra's master would say those roles are beneath her. He would be right. Her abilities make her too highly valued to spend her time doing aught else but what her vocation demands. But she does not do it.

Izra pulls tighter the sash that binds the baby to her chest, glancing over her shoulder as she ushers along the civilians hurrying in a ragged flock before her. One callused hand grips the rifle dangling at her side, finger resting with deceptive lightness on the trigger.

The city is falling, will fall. Izra knows this in her screaming, grieving bones, as she knows that death is inevitable for those who are trying to fight it-- her brothers, her sisters, O _God_. But nobody, not even the civilians she is saving, will ever understand how much strength it takes her to run away.

Sandals and bare feet slap hurriedly over blood-stained brick. The echoes of distant bombs and collapsing wreckage bounce off the walls of the broken buildings around them. A stitch of effort burns in Izra's chest as the weight of the silent, clinging child on her back drags at her, but she doesn't break stride. They are so nearly at the city's edge, and still so far from safety.

A tiny clatter of shattered clay tiles is her only warning. Izra whips around like a snake, one leg scything in the middle of her turn to slam into the Amestrian's gut. Her fists follow up, _eye-throat-jaw_ , and a thin spray of blood arcs across the dust as the soldier's face slams into it. Gasping through a bruised windpipe, he stares up into the barrel of her rifle with watering brown eyes.

The child on Izra's back squeezes his arms tighter around her neck, terrified but strong enough to keep silent, and for this she silently praises him.

Izra regards the soldier coldly. He's alone-- for now. Maybe lost. Maybe playing hero.

Izra knows thirty-eight ways to kill a man with her bare hands, and countless more with all the weapons she can improvise of the God-given earth. She knows the muscles and bones of the human body, the nerve clusters and joints and vulnerable soft spots. Even without bending down, she doesn't need to waste a precious bullet to get rid of this man.

Ahead of her, the civilians have frozen, staring back. There is hate in their eyes, not fear. "Kill him," somebody hisses.

The Amestrian doesn't try to beg, just stares up at her with a set, trembling jaw, sniffing back the blood pouring from his shattered nose.

His blood is just as red as hers, and beneath the blue gabardine, he is so very, very young.

The war has been long-- too long-- for both sides. If the Amestrians are drafting children like this one, they would force a soldier missing only a hand or an eye to stay in the trenches. But they can't field a soldier who can't walk, and Izra has had enough of this.

"Go home, boy," Izra says quietly, aiming her rifle at his left ankle, and pulls the trigger.


End file.
